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Vol. 36 No 3-4
Greek Poetry: New Voices and Ancient Echoes

Spring 1999

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Dimítris Kalokýris

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From: Colours of the Wet Animal (1990)

To Mine Own Son Romanos


IF YOU'RE STANDING SENTRY, on a February night 
on the foothills of Mt. Rodopi 
cocking your rifle at every whisper 
or with a shudder at the rustling of the grass 
you're startled from your lethargy — 
make a point of memorising journeys: 

that you drive to unknown places 
with the excitement of the criminal found not guilty 
that skilfully you play with fear 
patiently biting the lips,
that you're consumed in the light 
like the silver comet of Xerxes, 

(that you're swimming over the peaks of Gadira 
in the submerged concentric kingdoms of Ampheres), 

that you find kin of ours in distant lands 
who have opened shoeshine parlours, printing shops 
who invite you to their table, stand you a drink, sing 
and take you aside 
in confidence to show you the building 
that rose three meters above the ground 
moved, so they say, by the pleas of the crowds 
for the first time when Che was executed 
and the last during the vigil for Lennon; 

and surrender yourself to an indeterminate future 
that you're seeking the foundation at least of the bridge,
close to that puny little tree 
that's still growing in Brooklyn, 
then you descend to the subway networks 
or read messages about autonomists or aliens 
on aluminium carriages, 
that you endure among strange individuals 
among allotropic forma of desperation 
that you ascend again 
into the algebra of a russet autumn: 

The city; an unsolved equation of too many unknowns. 

MORE THAN THAT I've nothing to tell you 
how we might be tomorrow 
if anyone will give a jot about what we've done 
or even whether we'll continue 
to plunder the word 
one by one returning the syllables 
detached from the animal's windpipe 
nor whether we'll learn why and who 
unwound the threads 
where the Castilians first played a leading role 
where the Dutch saw daybreak 
which way the English entered 
and, above all, which way they left 
and also who constantly carry on their shoulders 
two hundred tonnes of tempered torch-bearing bronze 

Transatlantic Liberty 

with banners, trumpets and fireworks 
dancing a frenzied limbo amid the crowds 
on Hades' Fifth Avenue.

Translated by David Connolly

Page(s) 82-84

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